


Papped

by Mulberrywest



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Troubled Blood Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26682271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mulberrywest/pseuds/Mulberrywest
Summary: The morning after her birthday, Robin is awoken by a call from her mother.Contains Troubled Blood spoilers
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 20
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

Daily Mail, Saturday 10th October 2013

Under Cover!  
Super sleuth Cormoran Strike and his partner in crime Robin Ellacott were looking very cosy as they emerged from the Ritz last night, no doubt celebrating their latest success on the Margot Bamborough cold case. Soon-to-be divorcee, Miss Ellacott, looked stunning in a thigh skimming blue dress accompanied by Strike, illegitimate son of 70’s rocker, Johnny Rokeby, and former beau of IT girl Charlotte Campbell. Strike and his faithful flame-haired assistant were relaxed and clearly enjoying each other’s company as they left the upmarket Piccadilly hotel in the early hours of the morning after a champagne-fuelled night at the renowned Rivoli bar.

***********

“Hello,” croaked Robin, finally locating her phone at the end of the charger cable on the bedside table after several bleary-eyed attempts to silence it. Her head was throbbing but she nevertheless had an underlying sense of immense well-being.

“Robin, it’s mum,” said Linda with a hint of urgency in her voice. “Have you seen the papers? Joyce from Book Club called – you’re in the Daily Mail!”

“No, I’ve only just woken up. What time is it?” Robin said slightly irritably. “Is it about the case? I thought the press from that had died down?”

“No, it must be from your birthday.” Linda said impatiently. “There’s a picture of you and Cormoran leaving the Ritz!”

“Oh God,” sighed Robin, now vaguely remembering the paps from last night as she’d exited the hotel with Strike, on a cloud fuelled by champagne and happiness. “Let me try to find it on line.” She located her work bag from the chair next to her bed and started the laptop up, clenching her jaw as it went through its usual interminable round of updates before she could finally log on. Eventually she found the article and photo on the Daily Mail’s side bar of shame. “Bugger,” she muttered. It was a really odd sensation to see your life represented in a newspaper in this way – almost like an out of body experience.

“You look lovely, anyway. Did you have a nice birthday?” Linda asked briskly, breaking the, by now, uncomfortable silence. “Looks like Strike made a bit of an effort too,” she said pointedly, no doubt referencing what Jonathon had told her about the car crash dinner party at Max’s flat some months before. “He looks very smart in a suit.”

“He did make an effort,” Robin replied, slightly defensively, not wanting Strike to be disparaged in this way. “It was lovely. He really is such a good… friend. Oh no,” she said, her pulse racing as she took in the image on the computer screen again - Strike cutting a dash in his navy suit with his arm nestled around her exposed shoulders, whispering something seductively in her ear as she half turned towards him, smiling broadly and with her pupils dilated as she gazed at him. Her hair looked slightly distressed as though it had been gently tousled and Strike’s eyeline appeared to be drawn down to the swell of breasts emerging from the top of what, in the flash of the camera light, looked a rather insubstantial blue dress. If this picture had been given a caption, Robin thought, ‘Freshly Fucked’ would just about sum it up. Remembering that Joyce from Book Club was Geoffrey Cunliffe’s next door neighbour, she muttered to herself, “Matthew’s really going to hate this,” as the corners of her mouth started to twitch upwards involuntarily.


	2. Chapter 2

Strike yawned broadly and carefully removed his gel pad and prosthesis, fondly remembering Robin’s reaction to the birthday speeches and impressive Konditor and Cook cake bearing flickering candles and an iced 30 that Ilsa had primed the waiter to bring at the end of their meal, some hours earlier. From across the table, he had seen a blush creep up Robin’s neck on its arrival and now also allowed himself to recollect the stolen glances they had shared at various points during the dinner. Seated between Nick and Max, Strike had been free from the scrutiny that Ilsa usually reserved for any night out involving him and Robin. Instead he had been able to observe Robin pleasurably from a distance whilst enjoying the company of his good friend Nick, mercifully relaxed after a stressful few months, and of Max, who had been hugely entertaining in his own right. Robin, who had looked utterly breath-taking in the emerald Cavali dress, with strawberry blonde hair swept to one side, still seemed to be basking in the glow of his ministrations from Friday night and appeared to be taking the arrival of her next decade very much in her elegant stride. Strike was starting to revel in a growing awareness that his attention (and his alone, no longer Matthew’s or, it seemed, anyone else’s) had such a notable and pleasurable effect on this extraordinary young woman who he utterly adored.

Strike checked his alarm clock absent-mindedly and noted that it was just before 1.00am. From his jacket pocket, his phone beeped with a notification – half hoping it might be Robin, he reached for it, turned the phone over and saw a text from an unknown number:

Hello Bluey, looks like I was right to feel envious of that girl. What I would give to have you look at me like that again. And the fucking Ritz – I thought you hated those places – you resented taking me anywhere decent. Perhaps I don’t know you as well as I thought.

As he finished scanning through the message his phone beeped again.

It’s Charlotte (in case you have forgotten me already)

Fuck, he thought, he really had planned to change his number. And how did Charlotte know that he had been at the Ritz with Robin – had she been there, he wondered, instantly rejecting the idea as it would be so unlike Charlotte to not make a scene. He hopped to the bathroom to brush his teeth and, as he spat out the last of the minty toothpaste, a vague memory came back to him of a photographer lurking on Piccadilly on Friday night. He hadn’t really paid much attention, they’d had such a good evening and Robin looked so deliriously happy, he hadn’t remotely wanted to spoil it. He pulled his laptop out from under the bed and fired it up. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, the terms ‘Cormoran Strike’ and ‘Ritz’ turned up a link to the Daily Mail from Saturday morning. “For fuck’s sake!” he said, skim reading the slyly insinuating copy which made their innocent birthday drink sound so sleazy. What would Robin think if she saw this, or her family in Yorkshire for that matter? He remembered Linda Ellacott’s protective and slightly inscrutable expression from the wedding in Yorkshire two years’ earlier – he had seen concern for her daughter but also a flash of irritation that he hadn’t shown the courtesy of RSVPing, had arrived late and clearly then caused no small amount of drama. The photograph in the paper showed him being far more familiar with Robin than he had intended (or at least wanted to see splashed across a scandal rag like this) – to his mind, this image exposed him to the world as being wholly and utterly intoxicated by her. He shut down the computer in irritation, flicked off the light switch and tried to fall asleep, his brain now assessing the damage this could do to everything, risking the ease that had descended upon his relationship with Robin over the last few days and weeks.

He woke up early on the chilly Monday morning and after a shower and bowl of cereal, descended the stairs to the office at 7.30am before anyone else was likely to arrive. He turned on the computer in the inner office and, almost against his will, couldn’t help but take another look at the short article in the Mail on line. Amongst the maelstrom of more negative emotions, Strike finally had to acknowledge that he was also feeling some pride in the photographic evidence that this unquestionably stunning woman appeared to be experiencing no small degree of pleasure in his company. Her pupils were dilated, her lips parted, her attention undivided and her body language unmistakeably inviting. If this photo had a caption he thought, looking at the Liberty bag lightly dangling from the hand around Robin’s left shoulder, it would most definitely be “Shaggable You.” With a degree of optimism that Robin, unlike Charlotte, was unlikely to be scanning the gossip pages of the more reactionary press, he shut down the webpage and started scanning through the emails about new clients that Pat had referred on to him at the end of last week.

So lost was Strike in this slew of new clients that he barely heard the door to the inner office click open and Robin briskly walk in, shedding her coat as she rounded the desk. “Morning,” she exclaimed, smiling broadly, “fancy a tea?” “Yes, that would be great – thanks.” Not noticing anything amiss in her demeanor, in fact if anything she seemed even more luminous and cheerful than usual at 8.30 on a Monday morning, he deduced that she’d been too busy enjoying her birthday weekend to have spotted the article. He surreptitiously took in the sight of her shapely arse in tight black jeans, with a Breton-style top completing something of a Jean-Seberg look, as she reached up to hang her coat on the peg, and returned his attention to the email about the hedge fund manager who wanted her husband’s profligate spending habits researched. 

“Morning,” he heard Pat trill moments later to Robin who was now making tea in the outer office. “I see that you and his Lordship have made the papers again!” Oh god, he thought, he should have known that something like this wouldn’t have missed Pat’s attention. “My ‘usband nearly choked on ‘is cornflakes: ‘I thought you said those two were just business partners!’ ‘e said. Well – I didn’t know what to say – you do look very cosy…” Just at that moment, the phone on Pat’s desk started to ring and she was obliged to curtail whatever she was about to say to Robin and answer it. Robin seemed to be taking a very long time with the tea, Strike thought – was she checking her phone to see what Pat was referring to? Finally, he heard movement and the door to the inner office swung open as Robin moved round to his side of the desk to place the mug of creosote-coloured tea in front of him. “So our notoriety continues!” he teased lightly, deciding that honesty was the best tack in this circumstance. “I know,” Robin said slowly, a pink tinge spreading to her cheeks, “my mum phoned to tell me - the whole of Masham is abuzz with the news right now, I’m afraid – ‘local harlot seen inebriated leaving Ritz with tall, handsome private eye.’” “God, I’m sorry Robin,” he said surveying her face for clues as to how she really felt about this – it was never comfortable to be the subject of gossip and he knew that she had reason to be particularly sensitive since Matthew was from the same home town. Although, on reflection, he rather liked the idea of being the tall handsome PI in this scenario, even if it was said ironically, in the same vein as the word ‘harlot’. “It’s not your fault,” she grinned, realising his discomfort, “how did you know anyway, was Ilsa straight on the phone?”  
“Charlotte actually…”  
“Of course,” Robin murmured, her smile fading quickly, “I’m sorry too.” Bloody Charlotte, she thought irritably, a cloud crossing her face. So she is still in touch with him.

A moment passed, Robin started up her computer and busied herself with the papers at her desk.  
“Maybe we should just go to the Tottenham next time,” Strike grinned over at her. “Fewer paps.”  
“Will there be a next time then?” she pouted, keeping her eyes locked on her computer screen.  
“Well judging by the photo, I didn’t think you looked entirely unhappy to be seen out with me?”  
She blushed again and met his teasing eyes, “Not entirely.”


End file.
